In the Night
by onethousandoceans
Summary: (Totally reichenbach medicine) What if they had had the chance to say it all? Just one extra second, before the fall.


**In the Night**

Soft music played in the background, telling of a new adventure, a new beginning. The air was warm, but not overly so. People in the pews whispered amongst themselves. You see, these people, though few in number, were seated within this small inner-city church to view a most wonderful event; a wedding. The wedding of one Mr. John Watson to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't surprising; in fact, many people had predicted this progression of events as early as day one.

John fiddled with the box. The box itself was simple, as was the golden ring inside. However, as John stood in the vestibule of the church, there was only one thing more important than that ring in the whole world- the man that would wear that ring forever in just a few short minutes. The man that annoyed him to no end, had the bad habit of storing body parts in the refrigerator, could be a complete sod at times, but had ultimately stolen his heart.

Sherlock scoffed, "Circles under your eyes, you didn't sleep last night. There is sweat on your palms, yet the room isn't nearly hot enough to cause perspiration. You continue to fuss with that box, as well as your tie and cuff links. Are you nervous, John?" With this said, Sherlock allowed a half smile to adorn his features.

"A little, yeah."

Having spent several years together, Sherlock had learned that sometimes it is better to ask, rather than deduce.

"Why?"

John hesitated. "I just want it all to be perfect. I don't want anything or anyone to mess this up". Before he could elaborate, the music began. It was time.

Sherlock awoke with a start, half expecting to hear music playing. _'Damned dream. I assume sleep will not be keeping me company tonight'. _He lay in bed, staring at the bare ceiling and bare walls around. Thinking, simply thinking. Endlessly thinking; attempting to connect the aggravated memories of his mind. His first violin and how he had broken it when Mycroft insulted his playing. His school years, and the loneliness they brought. The first time he had met John, and the errors he had made. '_Error, what a rather peculiar word'. _It's both amazing and dull at the same time, what the insomniacs mind comes up with. Sherlock rolled over, observing the empty bed beside him. Noticing how the sheets lay undisturbed, cold. It was nights like this night that he wished he had never become a detective. It was nights like tonight he wished he could freely tell all, with no remorse. '_Why?'_

John remembered that day vividly. He almost wished he could forget the events. Wished he could forget those 7 awful seconds. But, he knew he couldn't. Knew that if he tried to deny what had happened, it would just hurt more in the morning. His therapist had recommended he say what he wished he could then, now. '_What a bloody stupid idea. Saying that I… What I wanted won't change a damned thing'. _There are things best left unsaid. The pain was still raw; his heart still ached as if it had all happened just yesterday, when really it had been a long while ago. John stumbled towards his bed. Nearly missing the edge, he falls, face first into the blankets. Defeated. Not only by his thoughts, but by his feelings. He looked at the sheets, how disturbed and crumpled they were, yet still as cold as ice. '_I ought to change these',_ he thought with a Sherlock jumped, John's life had stopped. He stopped going to the clinic as a doctor, and started going as a patient. He needed his cane again, as well as a daily dose of melatonin. Sleep was not his friend. In his dreams, thoughts of why, always why, laced with the anguish of being totally unable to stop it, plagued him.

He glanced up at the once familiar building. A brief look, 10 seconds, was all he thought it would take to ease his mind. The windows were dark, curtains drawn. The hinges of the door had started to creak, as if they had long stopped being used. What had used to be home was just an old building, no longer cheerful. No longer filled with the buzzing of Mrs. Hudson, nor filled with the sounds of occasional outbursts from tenants that used to reside behind the door. Sherlock knew he couldn't stand there too much longer- it was too risky. He was, after all, dead. Not in the traditional sense of no longer breathing, but in the sense that all the people from his life, save Mycroft, believed he had jumped. It wasn't an easy decision, not by any means. To drop everything, every case, every whim, to protect the one thing he held dearest to his heart. A man that was by no means outstanding, but at the same time, more precious than even the crown jewels. Why had Sherlock pretended to die in front of his flat mate? Simple really, _'It's easier to admit it now that you aren't around John. I loved you, and to continue doing so, I cannot be alive right now'. _As much as Sherlock had wanted to give John his last wish the very moment he asked for it, he couldn't. So long as the real Moriarty was alive, he couldn't be. He slowly walked away from his home. 221B would have to remain empty a while longer.

John awoke with a start. His dream, barely remembered, but always centered on the same enigmatic man, had jarred him. '_A wedding, hah, idiot'. _ So John, now used to silent nights, now uninterrupted by exclamations of 'bored', small explosions and the occasional angry violin music, looked at the room he now occupied. The walls were bare, as were most of the surfaces. All except for one thing. A box. Just a simple box, not altogether astonishing, yet all the same, very precious. Inside was a ring. Not a fancy ring, not by any standard. Just a simple golden band, no adornments, no jewels, no inscriptions. You might be wondering what this ring meant, being so simple. The answer to that is actually quite ring was for Sherlock, it was always meant to be Sherlock's. His birthday would have been 2 weeks after the fall. John had gotten it, as he had planned to let his flatmate in on a secret that day. He still kept it, over a year later, on the stupid nagging hunch that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't true. That maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would return. '_I could really use a miracle right now'._


End file.
